Intrepid
by ieheretic
Summary: Captured by Saiyan invaders, Bulma Briefs is forced to compete for the survival of herself and her home planet against terrifying odds. The Saiyans demand a barter of Earth's top human scientists in exchange for sparing the planet, but this won't stop Bulma from scheming for freedom while trying to outwit both her rival scientists and captors alike.
1. Initiation

Four hours, nine minutes, and twenty-four seconds.

That was how long she, Bulma Briefs—heiress to Capsule Corporation, genius billionaire, and world's most eligible bachelorette—estimated had gone by since she'd arrived on her captor's space station and been left alone in a cell. Or at least that was the most educated guess she could make regarding time, based on how badly she needed to pee.

The woman had sat through her fair share of board meetings to know how to gauge endless hours of tedium. Except this time, things were a little different than being trapped in a room full of verbose old men and women. This time, Bulma was trapped on an alien spacecraft, plucked from Planet Earth as a form of extortion by a violent race of humanoids hell-bent on conquering every world they came across.

They had promised to leave the planet alone if she complied.

The 'request' hadn't been a direct threat to her, exactly. The Saiyans had arrived in Earth's orbit without warning, and before humanity could even process its shock, the newcomers had demanded the surrendering of the planet's most advanced technology and the minds who had created it. In exchange, the Saiyans had agreed not to wipe up the little blue and green ball from the face of the universe, but promised little else in the way of reassurance or what they planned to do after.

When the infamous Doctor Briefs had been one of the individuals Earth's own people had offered up, Bulma had made sure she was the one to go instead. She may have had a doctorate or several, just like her father, but it was he that had invented the renowned Hoi-Poi capsules, not she. But the aliens had given no outward acknowledgement that they were aware she'd taken his place. Bulma had left him a scribbled last few words on a sticky note slapped to the fridge door—it had been the nearest writing space she could find in a hurry, because she'd be damned if she watched her ageing father sacrifice himself for people he'd already given so much to. The drive out to the rendezvous point had been a long, quiet one, quieter even when she'd laid eyes upon the space shuttle that would take her away.

It was perhaps the most selfless thing she'd ever done in her life. Now, squatting alone on the cell floor, she prayed for the umpteenth time that it wouldn't be the last thing she did _ever_.

There was one thing the blue-haired heiress did have up her sleeve. In the literal sense, they'd stripped her of all her belongings and suspicious articles prior to boarding, so she no longer carried the electronic multipurpose watch that would've come in handy for future escape. No, it was the thing Bulma prided herself most on: her astonishing mind.

Even as she huddled there, hugging her knees to her chest, the woman was confident she'd find a way to outsmart her captors. She hadn't been named heiress of her father's endowment by virtue of her birth alone. No, Bulma Briefs was confident that, despite being on a ship that potentially housed a plethora of genii from other planets, she would find a way to outdo them all.

The Saiyans may have had strength on their side, but from the looks of the soldiers who'd retrieved her from Earth, she estimated their collective intellects had the processing power of a mere handful of peas. Peas encased in two-hundred pounds of solid testosterone each and violent urges, and a massive warship with which to fulfill those urges and terminate with extreme prejudice.

Yes, her future looked bright indeed. She didn't think she'd ever wanted a cigarette and a bottle of cream sherry as desperately as she did then.

When the muffled sound of footsteps approached, Bulma lifted her head to watch the locked door. An electronic disengagement sounded and the barricade slid open, revealing a man with a short, wild mane of soot-black hair. Though armoured, his muscular arms were completely bared and unadorned, and the breastplate wrapping his torso was decorated with deep scratches. Boots set in place, his dark and roguish eyes looked over her and then, raising an eyebrow, he said something to her in a flurry of syllables that she couldn't possibly believe she was expected to understand.

"Are you here to take me to your leader? It's about time," Bulma huffed in as much indignation as she could muster. She felt that she ought to be more intimidated, but for some reason, stewing alone in a prison unit had deflated much of her foreboding and given way to resignation. However, she couldn't help the small bolts of adrenaline running through her veins as the prospect of the unknown before her.

The man tilted his head, looked her up and down, then smiled. "_Uratse'nos aht yi bis da ne, kyrda_?"

Bulma may not have been able to understand him, but she knew amusement when she saw it. They _knew_ she couldn't speak their language. They'd used their own system of translators—however exactly they'd done it, Bulma did not know—to ransom Earth. But perhaps the foot soldiers of the armada were even less intelligent than their upper-rank peers. Or perhaps they simply didn't care and enjoyed tormenting her. Perhaps—perhaps they'd been watching her curled up in her cell this whole time, laughing at her misery.

"You know I can't understand you, right?" she said, beginning to rise to her feet and then realizing how stiff her legs felt. They were strong enough to support her being upright, but she doubted she could walk over to the man and keep her dignity at the same time. Okay, so maybe sitting for so long in one spot and refusing to pace like a caged animal hadn't been her best idea.

The man rolled his eyes and entered the room, reaching Bulma in three steps. He then proceeded to take hold of her arm and guide her out, forcing movement into her rigid muscles as she half followed, half got dragged away from the cell and began a long trek down the corridor.

As soon as sensation returned to her limbs, so did the onslaught of pins and needles, but it was better than tripping every four paces. The deep grey of the long hallway stretched out before her and she tried to take peeks into the other prison compartments they walked by, but the man holding her made no move to slow down, nor to compensate for their difference in stride. Since asking where they were going and complaining were all the same to someone who spoke a different language, Bulma only bothered to make an irritated noise or two along the way whenever her captor tugged too hard.

Exiting the prison ward brought them into a wider, longer corridor, much better lit than the last and less drab, a bright chrome compared to the dingy palette of her previous dwelling. Throughout the trek, they were alone—no guards, no crew, no presences of any sort showed themselves. But the man seemed to know which direction to take, turning corners here and there and passing through entryways that opened and closed on their own. The first time he turned so abruptly that Bulma collided into his side, which could've been a brick wall for all it moved.

Curious enough, it was with this accident that she took note of the brown fur belt he wore, looped where the armour tapered at his midsection. For a surly warrior, it was the most out of place thing Bulma could think of. She could've sworn from grazing it that it was warm, in comparison with the coolness of his breastplate, but she knew her mind must have been playing tricks on her as the man gave a vague reprimand at her clumsiness.

When they finally arrived at the most massive door of them all, nearly the size of the doors in front of Bulma's garage back home, the man stopped and waited. Then he dropped his gaze onto her once more and smirked.

"_Holl brovozis, kyrda_," he sneered, followed by a string of words too long and fast for her working memory to capture.

Bulma lifted her chin stubbornly right back at him. "_Holl brovozis_, asshole," she muttered back, hoping the unfamiliar phrase communicated… _some_ of her displeasure, at least.

He only grinned at her again. "_Ah, tal umate'vos tur,_" he chuckled, turning towards the entrance as it pulled apart like a gaping maw and he led her forward once more.

Bulma held her breath as she entered.

The chamber was large, befitting of the wide entrance that guarded it, shaped into an oblong semicircle that ended where the flat plane of the door began. Overhead, instead of a ceiling, there was a massive glass dome threaded with steel beam supports, staring out into the black chasm of space. The area's cold lighting came from big, round lights recessed into the walls. And at the back of the room, seated on a slightly raised throne attended by soldiers on each side, was a man.

"Welcome, Doctor Briefs," his gruff, yet cultured voice rolled over the expanse of the room. Like the others, he was armoured and mesomorphic, but the build of his breastplate was slightly more intricate. A red crest was stamped on the area over his heart and a cinnabar cape spilled from his shoulders, the end draping over his knee. A flame-like shock of dark hair stood from his head and high cheekbones framed his austere gaze. His chin rested in his hand.

Bulma knew at once that he was their commander, even had he not been sitting in the chair or dressed the way he was.

So naturally, the first thing that came out of her mouth was going to be something that ensured they knew she was _not_ intimidated.

"How long is this going to take? I've only been dying for a piss for the last _four hours_, so I'd rather you save a grandiose speech about the paramountcy of my cooperation," she said.

The room was so quiet she feared all of them could hear her heart thrumming in her chest.

"I beg your pardon?" the man on the throne said in a tenor that was definitely not about to broker any pardons.

"You heard me. I was left in that cell for hours without food, water, or anything for that matter. Is this how you treat your visitors? How do you expect your scientists to perform like you demand when _this_ is how you greet them?" she furthered, even daring to put one hand on her hip, if at least to hide the fact that she was shaking. She was grateful her voice betrayed nothing, at least.

The man paused, sat up straight, and then burst out laughing.

In fact, the whole room was laughing, save herself and the Saiyan who'd brought her in, who looked slightly confused about the whole matter.

The commander, still chuckling, rose to his feet.

"You are the first scientist brought aboard with the spine to not beg for your life or anyone else's, _kyrda_," he declared, striding away from the throne and towards her. "Kakarot, _levet'os aki_."

The soldier next to Bulma guided her forward until she was standing but a few feet away from the commander.

"_Vegeta_ _Sadal, poden'bis_—" the soldier began until the commander held a hand up, silencing him.

"It is true, Doctor Briefs, you are not merely some prisoner. But neither are you an ordinary guest. We have proper accommodations set up for you, although you should not expect to be interacting with your fellow experts just yet. As pitiful as your attempts at conspiracy would be, we cannot allow you to scheme with any of them," he said. "Rest assured, I shall save you that speech and assume you understand the consequences for disobeying or trying to escape shall not be trivial."

Standing so close, the man's stature was not nearly as imposing as his presence—he was no taller than Bulma herself. But his eyes burned with a wicked fire behind their onyx exterior. She almost swore she could _feel_ the power emanating from the air around him, like a weight to the oxygen she breathed.

"Will I get any of my belongings back?" she dared to ask.

"You still make demands when you know not to whom you speak."

"A girl can imagine."

He smirked. "I am Prince Vegeta. That is all you need to know of me for the time being. What is important is that you understand your task."

Bulma felt her stomach continue to crawl up into her chest cavity.

"In three days time, you shall commence work to prove to us the merit of your planet and your species. From your Earth, we've collected two other Humans besides yourself. However…" The prince held up a single finger on his gloved hand, the white fabric stark in the cold lighting. "We only need one of you. We have no way of knowing which of you will be the most useful for our purposes, so in order to determine this, you will design a single piece of technology to demonstrate your worthiness for our cause. You will have six weeks to do so. No more, no less."

Bulma swallowed as discreetly as she could. "And then what?"

"The one who presents us with the most useful work gets to stay. If all of you fail to impress me, I will be forced to waste time to fly back to your pitiful rock just to destroy it."

"Even if one of us does impress you, what happens to the losers of this contest?"

He pressed two fingers on the soft spot under her chin and jaw, barely grazing her skin.

"A girl can imagine," he echoed.

By the time he pulled away and turned his back, Bulma wasn't sure how her knees were still holding her up.

"As I said—you'll have three days to grow accustomed to your quarters and work station, and any other areas of the ship that will be relevant to you. We will give you any supplies you may need, provided we have them at our disposal, of course. Kakarot is your assigned guard, but as his translator is broken for the moment, an additional assistant will be sent over. Kakarot, _levet'os_. _Uratse'bis codima_."

The soldier, who'd been next to her the whole time, took hold of her arm again and she realized she was about to be dragged out.

"Wait. What if—what if I need to talk you?" she blurted. Desperation seized her thoughts, along with the flurry of questions she still needed to ask. Six weeks? A measly six weeks when it took some companies _years_ for development? She'd have to go through drafts, schematics, prototypes, revisions, and everything by herself when she was just one person—in _six goddamn weeks_.

"You won't be talking to me at all," the prince said. "Direct any questions you have to your assistants. Kakarot will take you to your quarters and you can have your piss."

"Wait! I'm not done!" Bulma kept glancing over her shoulder as the Saiyan's iron grip pulled her further and further away. She got one last look at the prince's back through the massive steel doors before they closed shut behind her and she was once again in the dead hallway, with nothing but her guard to accompany her.

She looked up at him. "Guess I'm stuck with you, huh?"

"_Ne dresivi'bis anda_," he said with a shrug.


	2. Accommodation

Bulma had thought she'd be taken straight to her new quarters, but her dismay began to grow when the next set of doors she was dragged through led them into a long room full of stalls.

There were other figures moving about at the end of the room, but she didn't get time to look properly before Kakarot pushed her towards one stall in particular. Its barrier slid open and he nudged her in, following behind.

The space was brightly lit and small, not much bigger than an elevator. One of the white walls was decorated with tiny blinking lights and a large bolt—a doorway to whatever was next.

"Now what?" Bulma said. A noise behind her made her turn around.

Along one of the sides of the room, a small chute of some kind had opened up, next to where Kakarot stood. That in itself wasn't what kept Bulma staring, and her dread only worsened.

Her bodyguard was undressing, wiggling out of his armour that stretched like an elastic as he tugged at it. And what she'd assumed to be a fur belt had in fact loosened from around his waist, one end attached to the base of his spine and the rest curling in the air like the tail of an amused cat.

All she could let out was a horrified peep.

The man paused at the sound, having divested himself of the chest plate, hands hovering on the straps of the sleeveless spandex garment over his torso. She could see now that it was separate from the tight trousers, though made of the same material.

"_Nosyo dashemyo_," he said. He pointed at her, then at the chute.

"You… oh my god. You want me to undress," she squeaked, still rooted in place.

Kakarot sighed, lifting a hand to scratch the back of his head. Then he dropped it and moved towards her.

"_Aki_," he said, grabbing a fistful of her sleeve. "_Bis uratse'nos_—"

Bulma flat-out screamed and slapped his hand away, stumbling back several steps and holding her hands out in front of her. Her back hit the wall and the tremor in her legs had returned.

_If he wanted to hurt me, he would've done it back in the cell or when we first entered the room_, her rational mind said. But the more fearful part of her couldn't divorce her attention from the fact that a stranger—much stronger than her, who was partially responsible for holding her hostage, and very much resembled a human man—was alone with her and had pulled at her clothes.

Kakarot still stood right where he'd been, hand frozen in the air and expression no longer self-certain.

"Ehhh…" he sounded, face scrunched in puzzlement. He lifted his other hand to join the first and held them up in a placating manner. "_Ah, ah. Ne nos pvaran'bis_, Doctor Briefs. _Ah_."

A little of Bulma's fear slipped away as she watched him gesture at the chute and back to her once more. Then he grabbed his shirt again, this time pulling it all the way off and gently plopping it into the opening where he'd put his armour.

"_Mira_?" he said.

Bulma pursed her lips. She may not have had much in the realm of choice, but she'd be damned if she stripped in front of a stranger.

"Fine," she replied, unfurling a little. "But—you have to cover your eyes or I'm not cooperating." To demonstrate her point, she gestured at him with one hand and put the other over her face as she spoke, then removed it.

Kakarot expression went flat. Then he heaved a dramatic sigh, rolled his eyes, and closed them before turning around, muttering to himself as he returned to taking his own clothes off.

Bulma exhaled, turning to face the wall. Her hands were still trembling as she took hold of the hem of her shirt. "Bullshit," she hissed under her breath as she lifted it off.

One humiliating minute later, she'd managed to peel off her clothes and a substantial portion of her dignity with them, dropping the articles down the chute and watching them get sucked away into a vacuum. She almost wished she were small enough to throw herself in—hopefully it would launch her into the depths of space, where she'd have all eternity as a decompressed corpse popsicle to reconsider her life choices.

An idle sniff from her companion drew her attention back to the matter at hand.

Kakarot, thankfully, had remained facing away, where he still stood. Bulma made a point of staring at the wall or ceiling, only seeing him in her periphery as she crossed her arms over her chest and waddling over to him, giving his back a nudge with her elbow.

"I'm done," she said. He lifted his head and glanced at her over his shoulder.

"Hey, hey, don't look! I can walk by myself, you know!" she yelped as he turned around, grabbing her bicep and pulling her towards the unknown door.

As soon as they neared it, it too opened automatically, revealing another room much like the one they were leaving. Kakarot guided her through, staring straight ahead and stopping only once the bulkhead behind them closed.

Bulma, still hunched inwards to attempt to keep a little modesty, peeked around. The walls here were dotted with dozens of little holes, and affixed on the ceiling was something that worryingly resembled the mechanical arm in a car wash.

Kakarot let go of her arm. She dared to peer at his face, resisting the horrible human curiosity to look… anywhere, _everywhere_ else.

He still stared straight ahead, brown eyes focusing on nothing and he almost looked on the verge of a yawn. This close, it almost surprised her to notice how clear his skin was. She'd acknowledged when seeing him for the first time that he had to be around her own age, sure, but there wasn't so much as a damn spot of discolouration on his tan face. Nor the rest of him, either, although as her eyes went down his neck and to his broad shoulders, she could see little nicks and scars starting to decorate the planes of muscle. It was probably a strange time to notice, but he didn't seem to have any body hair. No stubble, either. In fact, if she thought about it… Had any of the Saiyans had facial hair, even? All the ones she'd seen had been male, or male-presenting anyway, but unless she had the boldness to look down any further—which she did not—she wasn't entirely sure what she was looking at was as similar to a human man as she'd thought.

As if on cue, at the end of her thought his gaze shifted to meet hers. The bone structure of his face, so human and yet so subtly alien, was sharp in the light as he flashed another smirk at her.

Bulma let out air between her teeth. "Is something about my discomfort _amusing_ to you—"

The dim mechanical noises in the background that she'd been ignoring kicked into full audible gear, and she was instantly and unceremoniously doused with ice-cold sprays of water from all sides.

Her ensuing shriek was deafening in the small space, but not quite loud enough to overcome the hiss of the water as the jets struck her hard enough to what felt like damn-near shred her skin off.

Only fifteen seconds went by before it stopped, but it was probably the longest fifteen seconds of her life before she breathed normally again. Her arms were clutched around her middle and she could hardly see thanks to the sopping blue locks plastered against her face. The smell of something like bleach clogged the air—she swore she could feel it in her nose, in her mouth.

Another terrifying few seconds went by when she realized that not only was Kakarot chuckling at her, but the substance she'd been sprayed with was not, in fact, water, because it was rapidly solidifying like dry glue and if she'd had any food in her stomach to throw up, she might have done her bodyguard the honour of hurling on him in spite.

"_Aki'tur boshvol'nos_?" he said in a mocking tone.

"F—f—uck—y—you," Bulma chattered out before the next round of spray drenched onto them.

Instead of an angry blast, the next phase came in a soft, tepid mist. Bulma watched the viscous horror melt off her in repulsive globs as the vapour rinsed it away, leaving behind an infinitely more pleasant prickle in her skin.

By the time it was done, she was completely warmed and dried, although she felt much like someone had taken a cheese grater to her body and stripped off even the possibility of dirt. Her hair hung poker-straight around her face in its natural texture, any memory of the curls she'd ironed in that morning so many hours ago vanished.

Decontamination. That had to be what this was. She was from an alien planet, after all, and her clothes and skin would be full of foreign bacteria.

The next door ahead of them opened and Kakarot pushed her through.

The final room was the least traumatizing of the three, in Bulma's opinion. Instead of more torture contraptions or places to strip her self-respect, it was filled with several racks of clothes and armour, and a bench in the centre of the room.

Kakarot sidled up to one of the racks and began perusing through it. Bulma plunked herself down on the bench, arms still crossed over her breasts, and said nothing.

Something dark and soft was tossed onto her lap.

"_Aki_," Kakarot said, facing away from her as he withdrew his arm. "_Dashemyo_."

Bulma stood, picking up the garment and holding it over herself as covering, then turned around and redressed.

Much to her surprise, her new clothing was a perfect fit for her slender frame. Maybe _too_ perfect. The available wardrobe consisted of several sets of bodysuits in various cuts, black or navy, and it was one of the former that she'd been given and donned. After that, she'd fished through the available white boots and gloves to locate her size and slipped them on. Much like the bodysuit, they felt like spandex, but more breathable and softer. For armour, she'd selected the plainest and one of the most petite pieces she could find. It was surprisingly light, flexible as she glided it over her head. The exterior felt like porcelain under her fingertips, but as she'd noticed before, it stretched when she pulled.

But Bulma's praise ended there. The only undergarments she could find in the room were black shorts even tighter than the material she'd squeezed overtop, and there hadn't been a bra or anything resembling a bust covering in sight. Thankfully, the fabric of her new apparel was quite thick, and the tight fit offered more support than she'd anticipated. And more modesty, thanks to the armour.

None of that stopped her from feeling more alien than ever as she and Kakarot strode through the hallways once more, off to whatever awaited her next.

* * *

Bulma gazed around her new living quarters and felt about as grey as the accommodations themselves looked.

They weren't as meagre as she'd expected. Though certainly not extravagant, it much resembled that of a spacious two-room apartment. Upon entry, she'd been greeted with a large, square area she assumed was to be her central working space. On the left was her bed: a minimalist cushioned slate that appeared to be able to retract into the wall, with no pillows or blankets. On her other side, the place was empty, though there were several rectangular outlines in the walls there that indicated storage units or furnishings of some kind that no doubt functioned similarly to the cot. At the back was a singular and narrow doorway, sealed by a sliding barricade of the same type she'd come in through. All of it was the same practical, gunmetal shade of much of the rest of the ship, save the crisp white of the bed linen.

"Wow," Bulma sighed. A nudge between her shoulder blades reminded her that she was not alone and so she stepped into the room, followed by the impatient Kakarot.

After glancing around once more, Bulma eyed the door at the far side, and then her companion. He'd leaned himself up against the wall, arms folded. Noticing her look, he held one hand out and gestured around at the room.

"_Tur nosyo_," he said. He then straightened and walked up to one of the outlines in the wall, nearest to her cot.

"_Pvaran'nos_." He tapped one of the corners inside the shape. When he did so, it extended like a drawer without sides or a bottom, revealing a few horizontal racks that stretched from the quadrilateral panel to back inside the wall. The brackets all held what looked to be more clothes. "_Mira_?" He touched the corner again and the shelf retracted.

"Um. _Mira_," she replied with a nod.

He snorted. Then he gestured from his eyes to the space in front of him and back again with his pointer and middle finger. "_Mira_. _Miii-raaa_, _niyeshmula_."

"Oh!" The excitement of a discovery, even something small, in an environment where she knew nothing eased Bulma's mind, if even by only a fraction. "I see… I mean, yes, 'I see.'"

He merely rolled his eyes again. She pointed at the sealed door.

"Is that a bathroom?" she said. He waved his hand again, as if telling her to figure it out, so she moved towards the barrier.

When she approached, the entryway drew open and she peeked in. Another nearly bare room, but quite small, about the size of a closet. There was a small, circular hole in the floor and a single spout protruding from a narrow tube in the adjacent wall at chest level, and nothing else.

Bulma eyed the hole. It was larger than the kind she normally saw in showers back home and no doubt would drain water the same way, except there was no grate over it to catch debris and the attendant spout was far too low to be a showerhead.

_Somebody tell me that's not the toilet. Please, oh god, the toilet's a fucking hole in the floor. _

She stepped into the room fully, the door shutting behind her.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered.

A few too many minutes later, Bulma huffed out of the bathroom, wiping her hands on her trouser legs and failing to subdue the redness in her face.

_Not the worst indignity I've suffered today_, she told herself as the door shut behind her.

Kakarot remained where she'd left him, leaning against the wall. If anything, her time alone had given her space to think about her situation.

Aside from dragging her around, Kakarot had never physically threatened or leered at her, though she couldn't say the same for all the Saiyans she'd encountered so far. There had been a pair on the shuttle sent to retrieve her—they'd been massive men and the older bald one, along with a few curt instructions that were essentially threats to keep her mouth shut, had given her one too many looks to make her comfortable. However, the other one, younger and solemn, had ignored both her and his companion for the duration of the trip. She didn't think she'd seen either of them during her audience with Prince Vegeta.

Things being what they were, perhaps it was best to… _make nice_ with her guardian. At the bare minimum, he wasn't interested in tormenting her more than his job dictated, and at best, he would actually be the one to protect her from any other dangers aboard.

There was one central philosophy that had helped her outpace her rivals in the cutthroat politics of the business world: know your enemy. If she was going to find a way to save both the Earth, herself, and perhaps the other scientists aboard, she'd need to learn how the Saiyans functioned, what they wanted—nay, what _drove_ them—and Kakarot presented the perfect gateway.

The language barrier was going to be a rather cumbersome handicap, however. At least until his translator was repaired, or the promised assistant showed up. But getting her proverbial foot in the door was better than nothing, so Bulma steeled herself once more and sucked in a breath.

"Kakarot," she said. "It's Kakarot, right?"

He just stared. She pointed at him, approaching.

"Kakarot. You. Kakarot." She folded her hands on her chest. "I'm Doctor Briefs. You know that. Bulma, Bulma Briefs." She pointed back to him, then to herself in succession. "Kakarot. Bulma."

"_Ah. _Kakarot_ tzidravu," _he replied, echoing her motion and putting a hand on his chest. "_Bis_—Kakarot. _De nos_…" He pointed at her. "Doctor Briefs, _de_… Bulma? Bulma_ tzidravu?_"

"Erm, yes. Both. Doctor Briefs, Bulma _tzidravu_, whatever that means."

"Bulma," he echoed, her name thickly accented in his mouth.

"Kakarot," she said back.

He smiled again. It was small, but… softer than his prior ones, without the same delight at her misfortune. "Bulma."

A sudden bang on the door caught both their attention.

She stared at it, then back at Kakarot. His expression no doubt matched her own—he didn't know who was coming.

When she moved for the door, he followed behind her.

_This must be the assistant_, Bulma thought.

The entryway slid back as soon as the two of them were near enough, and the new figure in the frame gave her pause and Kakarot gave an irate sigh at the sight.

Like many of the other Saiyans, the stranger was large. His hair was long, wild and black and past his waistline, and scarlet bands were wrapped around his bare bicep and thigh on his left side. His armour was no different than most she'd seen so far, although he wore less of it, aside from the additional gauntlets on his forearms.

"Um," Bulma said. "Hi. Bulma _tzidravu_."

The stranger's brows went up. "Wow. For a split second I thought you might've outsmarted the last guy and succeeded in syphoning Kakarot's brain out, but you absolutely butchered that pronunciation, so I guess everyone's grey matter is safe."

Bulma wondered if she might've had a stroke in between the door opening and the man speaking, because she refused to believe she'd been greeted on her first day aboard with the words 'brain syphoning.'

"_Raditz_," Kakarot growled before Bulma could ask for clarification.

"Kakarot!" the stranger said, shouldering his way through the door and past Bulma. His smirk was much like the one she'd seen her guardian himself display. However, Kakarot's current expression was set into an irritated grimace and he narrowed his eyes.

"_Niyai holl'nos aki_?" Kakarot put his hands on his hips and continuing on with a vicious stream of what Bulma assumed were curses, striding right up to the larger man and standing in his way.

"Calm your tits, _yadahnoa_, I'm not staying. I just wanted to see," Raditz replied, Kakarot still pouring words at him. "Of course, you still can't understand me, can you? Such an unfortunate turn of events." With this the stranger glanced at Bulma. "I suppose you're getting the shittiest end of the stick, though. Your bodyguard's really been put through the ringer."

"… What do you mean?" she uttered.

"Oh. Kakarot was previously assigned to a scientist from Pulm," he explained, looping his arm around Kakarot's shoulders, much to the other man's apparent chagrin. "Big ol' purple bug looking creature with one eye. Anyway, we didn't actually know that part of the reason Pulmians had such advanced tech is that they can literally absorb brain matter from other creatures. Mimic the neuron frequency from the mulch to get the information and memories out of them, or some shit like that. Anyway, the Pulmian tried to bolter its chances of escape by attempting to mash Kakarot's skull. Instead, it got its own splattered on the wall there, although Kakarot's translator got pretty fucked in the process. Took them forever to clean the stain off and get rid of the smell."

"You gave me a dead guy's bedroom," Bulma stated. _If that wasn't the fucking icing on the cake._

"Hey, we cleaned it first," he fired back, leaning more heavily on Kakarot while the man continued to look sour, but so far putting up with the treatment.

She swallowed. "So you're my assistant, then? Until Kakarot's translator is fixed?"

He snorted. "Fuck no. Nappa told me that one of the Human scientists was a woman and I wanted to see you for myself. Especially since Kakarot was assigned to you and they gave _me_ some old cunt to look after."

Bulma felt her stomach lurch. "Then… who the hell are you?"

"Heh. Raditz _tzidravu_, Doctor Briefs. Pleased to make your acquaintance," he quipped with a wink.

Bulma's brain raced. Even if he wasn't her assistant, this man was responsible for one of the other scientists, which meant she could potentially weasel information out of him. And he could speak both their languages. "You seem to know Kakarot pretty well."

"Pretty well is one way to put it," Raditz chortled. "We only share fifty percent of our DNA."

"… So, you're…?"

Raditz's smile flattened. "Brothers. We're brothers. Come on, that was clever! Aren't you supposed to be a scientist?"

Now that the men were both cross, the resemblance between them was obvious, though not jarringly so. "I know that siblings share half their DNA!" she said. "But for _one_, even if I didn't know, I'm a mechanical engineer and a physicist, not a biologist, and _two_, I have no idea how your species functions! For all I know you reproduce by snorting out genetically contaminated snot clones!"

"Sounds like something a Namekian would do," he mulled over. Then he grinned again. "Of course, I'd be happy to give you a hands-on lesson for how our physiology works, but I'm fairly certain out dear Prince Vegeta would have my dick cut off for that, so unfortunately, I'm off limits. So are you, by the way. I don't know how well Kakarot's been able to communicate this, but if anyone tries to fuck with you, in _any_ sense, say the word. My little brother will gladly tear their head off. You've got one of the strongest Saiyan warriors the universe can offer as your bodyguard." Raditz finally released him with a pat on the cheek.

"Well, that's good to know. But that doesn't change the fact that I don't know the words for 'save me' in your language," Bulma said dryly.

"There are no words for 'save me' in our language," he replied.

Then the door opened again, and when Raditz glanced at the movement, his expression instantly looked like he desperately wished there _was_ a phrase in his language that could save him. Bulma followed his gaze.

Instead of an even bigger brute, or worse, the Prince himself, there stood a petite, green-skinned woman with the fiercest glare Bulma had ever seen on features so delicate.

"Raditz, you sleaze! Should've figured you'd ditch your post to come harass these two!" the woman chastised, running one hand through her cropped white hair and settling the other on her curved hip. The motion drew Bulma's eye to the holstered gun resting in the same area.

"Y—you have no jurisdiction to barge in here, Cheelai! I could have you demoted for talking to me like that," Raditz said, though a considerable amount of confidence had left his tone. He stepped towards her, around Kakarot, but froze when the woman's—Cheelai's—amethyst eyes flashed.

"Like _shit_ I don't." Her other hand reached behind her and fished out what looked like a small metallic stick from… somewhere on her person, and she waved it in the air. "Read it and weep, bitch. I got a room card, know what that means? I got promoted to executive lab assistant! And you're supposed to be off guarding that old geezer!"

"_Temporarily_ promoted," he corrected, but Cheelai merely scoffed.

"Why don't you let the big kids get to work and go help _the_ _actual scientist you were assigned to_ change his pants or something. _I_ have business with Doctor Briefs."

With a string of grumblings, Raditz stomped out of the room and past the alien woman, glaring daggers down at her as he did so. Her smile was smug and sweet-as-sugar, and when the Saiyan gave one last look at Kakarot, the man blew his older brother a decidedly smarmy kiss.

When the door finally slid closed behind Cheelai, she let out a long breath. Then her eyes fixed on Bulma.

"You have a key card for the room too, y'know. You can choose to lock it for anyone, although Kakarot has a copy and so do I for the time being," the alien woman said.

Bulma found herself after a moment. "Thank god. How many people should I expect to just barge in here at any given moment?"

"Nobody but us if you're lucky. Just because the door locks doesn't mean they can't break it down." Cheelai sauntered further in. Then she acknowledged their Saiyan companion with a nod. "Kakarot."

"Cheelai," he returned as the woman moved to stand directly in front of Bulma.

"I didn't know there were other… aliens on the ship," Bulma said. Hell, she hadn't even known for certain that aliens existed before the Saiyans had shown up. All things considered though, she thought she was taking it pretty well.

"There are a few aboard that aren't Saiyans, yeah. But there's a good reason for that." Cheelai pursed her lips, then unclipped her gun from her side before swinging the barrel in Kakarot's direction. Bulma barely had time to breathe before the alien woman had fired and a bright orb darted out from the weapon, striking him square on—

And then Bulma watched him swat at the laser blast as if it were a fly, sending it straight into the wall where it burst into sparks and then was no more. Only a single dark scuff on the metal was left behind.

"See?" Cheelai said, popping the gun back into its holster. "By the way, now that you know the gun's not for show, I'm obligated to tell you that if you try anything funny, I'll shoot you. Specifically, if you try to attack me or take the gun or something blatant like that. I won't give you a warning. Same instructions go for Kakarot. Nothing personal."

"Consider the point taken by now," Bulma replied. Fuck, was _every_ person on board the warship going to threaten her with death or compliance?

"Good. Now, let's finish getting you acquainted. You got your key card already, yeah?"

Bulma shook her head. Cheelai frowned.

"No? Kakarot should've given it to you," the green woman explained. She looked at the man in question and pulled out the object she'd flashed from earlier again. Holding it up between two fingers, she wiggled it and raised her eyebrows at him.

His lips parted in realization, and then another string of unintelligible sounds came out of his mouth.

Cheelai sighed. "He says he forgot it. Damn it all, he's already forgetting shit. They didn't check him properly, did they?" Her focus went back to Bulma. "You heard about how his translator broke, right?"

"That Raditz guy explained." Bulma folded her arms.

"You've got the gist of it then, but not the whole story, I'm afraid. His translator _is_ broken, but it's not the only part of the problem. It's his brain too. When they put you in the tank, it can fix almost everything, given enough time. But your head is a bit different. The skin on top can be healed, but he's got damage right around where they put the translator, thanks to the last scientist he was in charge of. They made sure his combat abilities were intact, but…" She circled a finger on the left side of her head, over where Bulma knew a human's temporal lobe would be.

Yes, she was no biologist or psychologist. But even she knew certain functions of a human brain, and though Kakarot wasn't human, Raditz's earlier suggestions—and her own observation—seemed to indicate that much of their anatomy was the same. If that was the case, the translator was likely some sort of device implanted into the sensory or motor speech areas, perhaps both. Lesions in the former could easily affect his ability to comprehend language. Further in that region of the brain laid the trifecta of the limbic system, which… had something to do with emotion and memory, she recalled.

"I mean, he's a Saiyan, so he'll probably finish healing just fine and his translator will kick on sooner or later. I get why the Prince didn't explain it fully to you, but I figured you should know what the reason is if your bodyguard starts having problems," Cheelai finished.

"How do you know all this?" Bulma said.

"Oh, I heard it from Broly, and he heard it from Bardock who probably wrangled it out of the doctor. It doesn't matter now. We've got things to do. Like finish your orientation."

Bulma had been about to open her mouth and say something else when a rather audible growl sounded from her stomach.

Cheelai looked at Kakarot. He pointed at Bulma.

"You're telling me she hasn't eaten yet either?" the green woman sighed. "Looks like you're going to have a lot on your plate, Doctor Briefs. Literally."

As it was, Bulma had no appetite. Her stomach, which she'd been ignoring, felt like a heavy void in her abdomen, so she supposed eating before anything else would be a good idea, whether she wanted to or not.


	3. Orientation

In what seemed like the usual _modus operandi_ aboard the Saiyan spacecraft, what Bulma expected was not what Bulma received.

"I'm being taken _where_?" she demanded of her captor-assistants.

Cheelai glanced at Bulma over her shoulder, tossing her head to shift a stray lock of white hair out of her eyes. "Before you eat anything, we need to make sure our food won't kill you. Dying by being poisoned is a lot worse than by nutrient deficiency, don't you think? We can't assume you need the same diet as the other Humans or the Saiyans just because you look similar. And now that you're all cleaned up, we can bring you into the medical wing without the doctors chewing our heads off about it."

"Is this really necessary?" Bulma glanced around the hallway they were moving through. Now that she was deeper in the bowels of the ship, there were more crew darting about. Some other Saiyans, from what she could tell, and on occasion aliens of other, wildly varying types. "I've already been handled and prodded at enough. I'm sure Slick here can corroborate that for you." She dared to shoot a dirty look at Kakarot, who walked next to her.

"Sorry, Doctor Briefs. You were scanned upon entry to the ship and you've already went through decontamination, but you need a proper look-over to determine that there's nothing more biologically insidious about you. For your own safety as well. Besides, species from backwater planets are often lacking in medical technology to help themselves. You never know."

Bulma felt a muscle twitch in her forehead, but chose to not release the biting retort she'd cooked up and instead changed the subject to something that might give her more information.

"If you don't mind me asking," she began, "what's your ranking on this ship?"

Cheelai cocked her head. "I'm a communications technician. Nothing too fancy. Why do you ask?"

"Oh. It's just… If you're going to be my temporary lab assistant, it's best to know what kind of experience you have. Plus, that Raditz guy seemed pretty intimidated by you."

The alien sighed. "Ah. That. Well, as much as I'd like to think it's entirely because I know how to stand up to him… it's probably also because of Broly."

"And who or what is a Broly, exactly?"

Cheelai stopped at yet another door about as wide as three or four people, marked with large unfamiliar letters. "You'll find out eventually."

The door opened and she entered first, Bulma in tow and Kakarot at the rear.

More pale walls washed over Bulma's vision at the large room they entered. It looked more similar to a hospital office on Earth than she'd expected. Open corridors broke off from the main room on either side, and the main feature of their current space was a large, unattended desk.

The trio walked up to the desk, Kakarot leaning himself on the corner while Bulma and Cheelai approached the centre. There was a large, raised lip around the border, and the latter peeked over, then pulled away and looked from left to right.

"Doctor Parcha?" she called. She glanced around again and called a bit louder. "Hello? Doctor Parcha? I'm here with one of the Human scientists."

There was no response. Dimly, Bulma could hear activity from somewhere further within the medical wing, but no distinct sound of footsteps.

"Huh. Parcha is normally prompter than this," Cheelai mused. Upon the front of the raised border, there lay a small square touchscreen flat on the surface. She touched it and a buzzer sounded, loud enough to hear but clearly sounding some kind of alarm somewhere else in the medical wing too far to hear. It stopped when she removed her finger.

Another long moment of silence passed. She tapped the buzzer again, to no avail. Then she sighed and slumped, staring up at the ceiling in exasperation.

"Oh, come on," she grumbled. "I don't wanna wait here all day."

Kakarot let out a huff and pulled away from his corner of the desk to approach the two women. Sticking his arm between them, he pressed his finger into the buzzer and held it there. The grating sound continued for several long seconds until he released it, then proceeded to poke at it again rapidly in sequences of no particular order.

The sound of something shattering nearby reached Bulma's ears. Kakarot looked in the direction and paused button until a figure, at long last, emerged from the hallway on the left.

And Bulma nearly shrank back in terror.

It wore simple armour across its upper chest and shoulders from which an open, white lab coat draped, but other than that, it looked nothing like a doctor. It was huge and saurian, covered in skin like a toad's and with massive teeth that glinted in its snarling mouth. Amber-coloured eyes ran over them with disdain, and from its head hung long, green locks, pulled into two braids on either side and one more coiled atop the crown of its head—a jarringly dainty contrast to the rest of the hideous creature. It held a tablet in one massive hand, fingers more like meat hooks than appendages, and on its belt, a small, square contraption rested.

The alien glared at Kakarot as if it could drill a hole through his head just by looking. The Saiyan pressed the button one last time and the device on the doctor's belt sounded off. Its eye twitched and Kakarot finally, languidly, stepped away from the desk.

"Oi, Parcha _Tza_! _Niyai holl'nos_?" he said with a smirk.

"Doctor Parcha!" Cheelai tittered. "You look, ah, radiant."

"I've been having _one of those days_," the creature growled, "so if Kakarot touches that button again, so help me, I will amputate every last one of his fingers with a cooking mallet." Then it huffed and strode further into the room, tapping something briefly on the tablet it held.

"Speaking of Kakarot, he is not finished healing. And yet I see he's clearly back on duty."

"He was assessed and they said he was well enough to return to work," Cheelai replied.

"Assessed by whom? I certainly didn't clear him for that." The creature's eyes moved past each member of the trio until its gaze finally landed on Bulma.

"H—Hi," she said. "I'm Doctor Briefs."

"No doubt." Its eyes ran her up and down. "You're here for standard medical clearance, I assume?"

"That's what I've been told."

"About time. This way, please, Doctor Briefs—and you two, go to the waiting room." The doctor tapped some more on the device and promptly turned to head down the other hallway across the room.

Bulma treaded after it—or him, rather—until she noticed that Kakarot was following them.

It was a moment later until Parcha noticed, responding with a hiss of vexation.

"Kakarot. _Ne umate'nos aht yi vos,_" he demanded.

The Saiyan crossed his arms. "_Tenir'bis tilanem os dashe'bis. Fi tolanda."_

A muscle pulsed in the doctor's forehead. But he inhaled deeply, then exhaled. "_Tal… os dashe'bis, _Kakarot. _Ne umate'nos aht yi vos_."

Kakarot pursed his lips, but didn't make a retort. Parcha huffed and turned on his heel and Bulma followed, Kakarot staying behind.

Bulma returned her focus to what lay ahead of her, staring at the doctor's back. "What did he say?"

"Something along the lines of insisting his duty to protect you extends to looming over my shoulder while I do my job," he snipped. "What does he think I'm going to do, clobber you with my tablet?"

Bulma felt that under other circumstances, she might point out to Parcha that he was a hulking, clawed beast that looked like he could snap her neck by flicking her too hard, but she kept that to herself.

Eventually, they came upon another room, not so different in size from the first. In the centre was a large circle, raised and faintly glowing around the edge, positioned in the middle of the floor. It was surrounded by what looked like a large cylinder of glass. Above it on the ceiling were several types of wires, tubing, and other contraptions. Nearby, where they currently were, there was a large dashboard with a screen.

Parcha approached the dashboard and rested his tablet on it before tapping on the larger screen in several places. The glass pane vanished—only noticeable because the faint refractions it gave off were no longer present.

"Stand on that platform, please, and face me," said Parcha, not looking up from the dashboard.

Bulma sucked in a breath and did as instructed. She passed over the threshold where the glass had been and stepped onto the plate, then turned so that she could see the doctor. The clear barrier returned, locking Bulma into the circle.

The blue light at the bottom then rose, as if it were inside the barrier, the hoop rising all the way up the cylinder and back down, scanning her.

"I'm going to ask you several questions. You may answer or decline to answer, but keep in mind that declining to answer is considered a response, and won't help either of us," said the doctor. The light from the screen reflected off his eyes as he looked over it.

Bulma raised an eyebrow. "Okay?"

"The more information you give me, the better I can help you. The only direct reference I have for your species is your fellow Humans aboard." Parcha glanced up at Bulma. "You _are_ the same species as the other Earthlings, correct?"

"Yeah. If they're both Humans, yeah." Bulma wasn't sure exactly how much knowledge was safe to divulge. She'd rather not die because of some unknown factor aboard the ship being ill-fit for her biology, but at the same time, she didn't know what else her captors might do with information on her species.

Next to Bulma, a slender, mechanical arm descended from the ceiling. She hardly had time to notice it before it touched her and there was a prick of pain in her bicep, and then the odd sensation of something sticky immediately after.

"Hey!" she blurted as the machine retracted. On her arm was a tiny, circular spot of shimmering green where she'd felt the poke. When she prodded it, it was sticky, like a spot of glue.

"Just taking a blood sample." Parcha's fingers flew over the screen again. "It'll take a few minutes to synthesize a DNA reading, but so far, you appear to be quite healthy. Although you have unusually elevated levels of progestogens in your bloodstream."

"Oh," Bulma said. "That's probably just from my… uh… pills." She certainly hadn't packed her birth control to take to space, but no doubt the last one she'd taken was still in her system.

"I see," said the doctor. "Medication for controlling reproduction, yes? And your species procreates sexually? Or can you conceive asexually? You appear to have internal gonads the way females of many species on board do, but it would be helpful if you could clarify whether this is correct."

"Excuse me?" Bulma sputtered.

The alien looked up at her dryly. "How does your species procreate? Can you conceive on your own, or do you—"

"Yeah, I heard the question loud and clear. Did you think I wouldn't be weirded out when you ask me a question like that? Also, _gonads_? What the fuck do I look like, a fish?"

Parcha's eye twitched. He tapped a single claw on the tablet's edge. "I'm a doctor, not a magician—I can't read your mind to figure out what considerations you need to acclimate to life aboard. I'm also your primary healthcare practitioner for your time aboard this ship, so I suggest cooperation to make this go as smoothly as possible. I understand we're doctors of different types, but if the word gonads is too much for you, I'm happy to use a phrase better suited to your… particular vocabulary."

Bulma distinctly didn't appreciate her physician's tone. "So some weird-ass lizard man from space asks me about how my genitals work and I'm not supposed to be offended?"

"Hm. Discussing procreation seems to trigger aggressive behaviour in your species. Is this an evolutionary tactic to fend off rivals? The other Humans reacted with equal displeasure to my inquiry."

"Hmph. How's this for crass—go shove a gonad up your ass," Bulma hissed.

"_Highly_ aggressive behaviour," Parcha amended as he returned to tapping on the dashboard. Then he glanced up again, eyes narrowing. "Oh, and by the way… Although at times I may resemble an, ahem, 'weird-ass lizard man,' as you so delicately put it, I'm a woman. I'd appreciate being referred to as such."

Bulma made a groan of despair and banged her head against the glass in front of her.

* * *

By the time the doctor had finished interrogating her with as many questions as she could cram into fifteen minutes, Bulma wasn't sure how much more she could take. Parcha had sent her off with clearance for a meal program, and that was how Bulma found herself in the ship's cafeteria, sitting in front of a plate of colourful puree while Cheelai had left to get some food of her own.

It was sectioned off into three neat areas, divided by convenient raised lips in the plate. Two of the portions smelled somewhat like steamed vegetables, but the third smelled like meat—although it certainly didn't look like it. To top it all off, the only thing they'd given her to eat with could only be described as an overengineered spork, the handle end fitted into a dull knife shape.

"Space-spork," Bulma muttered to herself as she sat there, staring at her plate. "Hurray."

The cafeteria was enormous, although not full at the moment. Other people milled about or themselves sat eating. Some were Saiyans, some were not, and most of them nearby thankfully seemed too focused on their own food to shoot her more than a glance.

Bulma heaved a sigh once more and lifted her spork to poke at the mush on her plate. A cautious bite had rewarded her with a distinct, bitter, carrot-like flavour of the first slush pile.

"_Odro'nos_," Kakarot said, gesturing at her food with his free hand, his other cradling his chin in his palm with his elbow propped on the table.

"Yes, truly delicious," she replied dryly.

"_Ne tal poden'nos holl tilanem fi _Vegeta_ Sadal iye ne odro'nos." _

"Feel free to start talking in a language I can understand at any time, dude." Bulma sighed again more loudly, perhaps for her own sense of theatricality, and set her spork down. He nudged the plate in Kakarot's direction. "You want this? I don't think I can stomach it."

He glanced at her abandoned plate and huffed, fingers of his other hand drumming a pattern on the tabletop. Then he sat up straight and pointed at her food again, then at Bulma. "_Odro_." He pantomimed moving a utensil up to his mouth and back down again.

"Yeah, I know you want me to eat it. But I'm not gonna."

He narrowed his eyes. If not her literal words, he seemed to have understood the message from her body language.

"_Iye ne odro'nos_," he said slowly, "Parcha _Tza tal_…" He held up both hands, touching his forefinger and thumb together on each to make two circles. Then, he moved them, as if trying to indicate he was grasping an imaginary tubular or cylindrical shape. When Bulma frowned, he made another movement as if he were raising the end of the tube to his mouth, then proceeded to act as if it were being stuck down his throat, complete with a dramatic choking noise. When he was finished he put his hands back onto the table, staring at her as if he could will her understanding into existence.

"Uh," Bulma said. "Are you trying to say… if I don't eat," she continued, making an eating gesture, "Doctor Parcha will feed me with a… tube?" She held her hands up the way he'd done as she uttered the last word.

Kakarot nodded and raised his hands again. "_Tuub_," he echoed.

Her stomach churned. "Well, at least I've been warned."

At that moment, Cheelai returned and plopped down next to Bulma, her own plate in her hand.

"I've been looking forward to this all day," she said, beaming at her food before diving in without hesitation.

Halfway through scarfing, she glanced at Bulma.

"Wha' ar' 'ou doin'? Ea'!" she demanded through a mouthful, jabbing her spork in Bulma's direction.

Bulma held in her sigh this time, and with a resigned tensing of her shoulders, she picked up her utensil and ate.

* * *

Cheelai had eventually, it seemed, tired of watching Bulma pluck at her food like a despondent hen and ushered her and Kakarot out of the cafeteria.

They were back in the endless twining of massive hallways, alien figures passing to and fro beyond them.

"We still need to get hold of your room card," Cheelai said. Then she jabbed a thumb at Kakarot. "I don't have the clearance to retrieve your copy of the room card on my own, but he does."

Kakarot perked up at Cheelai's gesture.

"Kakarot," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "We, uh… _umate'vos_… _umate'tur_… card. Card _fi_ Doctor Briefs."

The Saiyan cocked his head. His mischievous smile was back. "Cheelai, _ne nos poden'bis dresivi_."

Cheelai let air hiss between her teeth. "Oh, come _on_, Kakarot, you know what I mean." She, again from some mysterious place on her person, produced the small metallic stick she'd used earlier to enter Bulma's room and waved it at Kakarot.

When his self-assured smile remained on his face, Cheelai groaned.

"Ugh. _Umate'vos tur_ card," she attempted.

"Hm… _Tur_ _uratse'vos fi _Bulma?" he said, emphasizing a few particular syllables as he pointed at the object Cheelai still held up. He chuckled. "_Da umate'nos ferunya_ card?"

"The first one, you jerk," Cheelai said, her hands on her hips. "_Tur uratse'vos fi_ Doctor Briefs." Bulma noticed a faint, lilac blush crawl over Cheelai's face.

"_Ah, ah_, Cheelai. _Tal tur levet'bis_." Kakarot gave an exaggerated bow and then turned with a flick of his tail, walking off with a swagger.

"Fuck, he's such a brat sometimes," Cheelai muttered when he was far enough away.

Bulma glanced between the man's retreating figure and the alien next to her. "What did he say to you?"

"Well, let's put it this way—with _my_ translator, I can understand whatever he's saying, but it doesn't actually give me the ability to voluntarily speak their language. I've been trying to learn it the old-fashioned way, but of course I get stuff wrong and needling me about it makes his damn day. Raditz is even worse. It's just my dumb luck that their two most common words for 'want' sound nearly the same but send drastically different messages."

"Ah." Bulma's attention was temporarily caught as a troupe of Saiyans marched by. Cheelai herself gave them an eyeful as they moved through, but Bulma hardly noticed.

Each of the Saiyans was male and as black-haired as the next. Some were built with the sturdiness of a powerlifter, some with the wiry muscle of a panther, but all had a wild edge in their eyes and dark, furred tails protruding from the bases of their spines. Unusually, none wore armour, dressed in only bodysuits or loose, light garb fit for training.

They seemed to be in the midst of conversation, joking loudly amongst themselves. Their harsh guffaws and interruptions of one another made it difficult to understand anything that was being said.

As they passed, the one in the lead—tall and square-jawed, with a short ponytail at his nape—glanced at Bulma pointedly. He raised a brow at her, and their gazes held for a moment until he broke eye contact and continued onward without so much as breaking stride. The other Saiyans didn't even acknowledge Bulma and Cheelai's presences, too busy talking between themselves.

"Ugh," Cheelai said at length, her voice breaking Bulma's contemplation. "Maybe we shouldn't loiter out here in the hallway. Come on—there's still a few more things I can show you while Kakarot gets your room card. Let me see..." Cheelai lifted her hands and began counting down on her fingers. "We've got your room, the medical wing, and the cafeteria down, and you've already seen the prison ward and the throne room. I think all that's left that you'd need a tour for is the laboratory and the training room, and the training room is where those guys just came out of, close by—"

Cheelai slowed, then halted completely, Bulma following her line of sight.

Another Saiyan, one of the two Bulma recalled as having retrieved her from Earth, stood before them. He was bald and, unlike the rest of his kind, had facial hair in the form of a defined goatee. She immediately disliked the way his eyes glinted when he stared down at them, both figuratively and literally, Bulma noted—his form towered, bigger than any human she'd ever seen. Except for her old friend Chi-Chi's father, maybe.

"Well, well," the Saiyan said. "I didn't know you'd been assigned to one of the Humans, Cheelai."

"Good to see you, Brigadier General," Cheelai acknowledged. Her expression was tight.

"Oh, no need to call me anythin' fancier than Nappa. We're practically family on this here ship," he said, eyes sliding over to Bulma. "So, where are you takin' it? To the trainin' hall for a proper orientation, I hope?"

Bulma's mouth dropped open before she could stop herself. "I'm not an _it_," she blurted rather loudly. In the corner of her eye, she caught Cheelai's worried glare, but chose to ignore it.

Nappa raised an eyebrow, his leer not slipping in the slightest. "Heh. No, of course not."

"… We were planning on visiting the training hall later, once Kakarot gets back," Cheelai said. Bulma noted the emphasis she put on her bodyguard's name.

"Oh? You almost make it sound as if the Human's opinion matters," Nappa replied. "I know you're not accustomed to this kind of job though, Cheelai. What say you let me finish takin' _Doctor_ _Briefs_ around the place? You and Kakarot could have a bit of extra time for yourselves, and I'll take the Human for the rest of the day. The trainin' room's pretty empty right now—we could get a private spot so no one would bother our brand-new scientist and me."

Bulma could not, in any number or combination of words she knew, express how much she absolutely did not want to 'get a private spot' with General Nappa. At least when he'd retrieved her from Earth there had been someone else present. She might not always have been the best judge of character, but Bulma could smell a scuzzball from a mile away. In her line of work she'd met an unfortunate number and considered her nose very practised.

"Sorry, General, but the rules are the rules. Kakarot and I can handle everything Doctor Briefs might need," Cheelai said.

"Well, if you must be reminded, dear Cheelai, I outrank you," Nappa mused. He stepped closer. "It is at my discretion to decide how things should be handled in the prince's absence, and I'm much more capable of making sure nothin'… unseemly befalls the Human."

"Unless something happened to Kakarot or myself, Prince Vegeta's orders were very clear." Cheelai's palm had drifted to rest on the butt of her gun. "Do we need to take this to him to clear things up?"

Bulma found she had slid closer to Cheelai, whether by some instinct to shield herself or to protect the other woman. She had always considered herself dainty, but Cheelai was positively petite, and Bulma recalled vividly how the blaster fire had all but bounced off Kakarot earlier.

"You think Prince Vegeta is goin' to bother with your petty complaints about nothin'? Look, these Humans are crafty. They need a firm hand to show 'em the ropes, else you'll be lookin' at another situation like what Kakarot had happen to him," Nappa said.

Bulma's legs were quivering again. "You've never even met a Human before we just came aboard," she riposted. "How would you know anything about what we're like?"

Once again, his attention slithered onto Bulma. "Heh. Guess you could say you got that look in your eyes—too clever for your own good."

He reached out towards her. Possibly to grab her, or perhaps something else, but Bulma never found out. Because at that moment her view of Nappa vanished and she found herself staring into the armoured back of a familiar figure.

"Kakarot," she heard Nappa hiss as the Saiyan bodyguard stood between her, Cheelai and the general.

Kakarot didn't reply. Bulma couldn't see his face, but she could see the line of tension in his shoulders as he gestured for her and Cheelai to move further back. Bulma acquiesced and stuck close to the other woman, just in case.

"Awfully prickly, aren't you? Stand down and get lost. This situation doesn't require your intervention," Nappa went on.

"_Ne uratse'nos anda im brosyo_," Kakarot said.

"Ah, I forgot. You can't fuckin' understand me." Nappa heaved a pseudo-exhausted sigh. "_Ne nos umaba'bis'gesh_, Kakarot_. Entoche aht'nos_. Asshole."

From her retreated angle, Bulma could get a peek at Kakarot's expression. He wasn't even flinching at whatever had been said to him. His usual mischief seemed to have vanished entirely, nothing but determination written on his face.

Nappa took another step and leaned forward until he was nearly nose-to-nose with the other man. "That's an order," the general spat.

When the younger man still didn't budge, Bulma watched with wide eyes as Nappa growled and reared, raising an arm as if he meant to backhand Kakarot across the face.

"Wait!"

Bulma's body was moving before her brain had realized what she was doing. More pleas were already on her lips, her hand outstretched as if she could stop the scene unfolding before her, but at the same time she let her voice out, another spoke over it.

"What's going on here?" a voice demanded as Bulma, unable to stem her momentum, hurled into Kakarot's side, only managing to keep herself from faceplanting into the floor by winding her arms around his waist as her legs jello-ed beneath her. Unfortunately, rather than the floor her face became unceremoniously smushed against rock-hard armour and her shoulders felt as if they almost came out of her sockets as her arms clenched, the only thing supporting her weight.

Although her own were closed, Bulma sensed every eye on her for an uncomfortable moment.

"_Vegeta Sadal_," she then heard Kakarot say. She cracked open an eyelid.

Prince Vegeta, identically stern to the last time she'd seen him—excluding his attire—stood glowering over the situation. His arms were folded over his chest, and despite wearing what looked like plain, loose-fitting exercise gear, his aura had not changed. In the corner of her eye, Bulma could see Kakarot giving her a quizzical downward look, his arm raised away from her. Nappa's face was stuck somewhere between anger and shock.

"Your Highness," the large Saiyan acknowledged. His hands were at his sides again. "I thought you had decided to stay and train alone for awhile longer. I was just havin' a word with Cheelai and, eh… Kakarot. Offerin' to take the Human off their hands for a little while. Nothin' important."

"Nothing important, hm?" Prince Vegeta raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you weren't planning on starting a brawl out here in the halls then, were you?"

"Of course not, sir."

"No?" Prince Vegeta narrowed his eyes. "Did I not see you raise a fist, with Doctor Briefs between you no less?"

Nappa didn't respond, his mouth and posture tight. Prince Vegeta's gaze, intense as a spotlight, slowly turned to Bulma.

"I'm so sorry, Your Higness!" Cheelai cut in, stepping forward with her hands out in a placating manner. "It wasn't our intention to inconvenience you in any way. We were just getting Doctor Briefs's things, really, we're keeping good watch on her, and…"

"Calm yourself, technician, you're not in trouble," Vegeta interrupted without breaking eye contact with Bulma, walking over. The frazzled Briefs heiress had slid down to a sitting position, bent legs beside her, not quite sure she'd actually done something as stupid as attempt to stop Nappa from hitting Kakarot.

"Um… hey again," Bulma quavered out as the prince approached, stopping a few feet away as Kakarot stepped back. "Fancy meeting you here."

Prince Vegeta's expression didn't shift in the slightest. "It's Bulma Briefs, isn't it?"

"Oh. Uh. Yeah, how did you—"

"I understand your people may be uncultured, but you should know it is customary to stand in a royal's presence, not sit."

Bulma realized she was still squatting on the floor, in full view of the entire hallway. Not her proudest moment, she supposed, but not her worst. That 'uncultured' bit, though—that tickled her.

"Oh, sorry," she said as she stood up. "I didn't realize you were literally royalty. You seemed to take the piss bit earlier today in stride, so I assumed the prince thing was, like, metaphorical or whatever."

A muscle twitched in the prince's left eye. "You are in the presence of Vegeta the Fourth, Prince of All Saiyans and heir to the throne."

_A real live dark and broody space prince, huh? _she thought._ Who would've guessed my year would come straight out of a cheap paperback sci-fi? _

"Well, you didn't introduce yourself that way when I got dragged into the throne room. Although I guess the full title's a bit mouthy, wouldn't wanna risk tripping over it when you're trying to intimidate somebody I guess."

Prince Vegeta pursed his lips. "Move along, Bulma Briefs. Do your best to keep that head of yours on straight and don't wander away from Kakarot again."

Cheelai was immediately at Bulma's side, perhaps sensing the retort the heiress already had on her tongue. "Thank you _so much_, sir," Cheelai blurted, grabbing Bulma's arm. "We'll be right along our way. Kakarot, I hope you're coming, heh heh…"

Not for the first time, Bulma was dragged away, narrowly avoiding the full intensity of Nappa's silent scowl as they passed him, Kakarot thankfully walking between them.

Cheelai's grip on Bulma's arm didn't relax until they were a good minute down the corridor, out of sight of the prince and the general. At that point, Cheelai ground to a halt and whipped around so she was facing Bulma.

"Did you really just try to take the mickey out of Prince Vegeta?" the green woman demanded, jabbing a gloved finger forward.

Bulma let out a chuff of air. "Well, what did you exp—"

She stopped herself when she noticed the grin creeping onto Cheelai's face.

"That was fucking _awesome_," she exclaimed. "I mean, I was totally convinced we were gonna get our shit wrecked for it, but man, I didn't think you had it in you. Nobody else on this ship does."

Kakarot leaned over, popping his head into the conversation. "_Niyai gesh bo Vegeta umaba'os?_"

Cheelai shifted the direction of her pointing to the Saiyan. "And you, mister—if you're gonna show up to protect us, maybe don't do it by the skin of your teeth, eh?" Then she paused. "Speaking of protect… what the hell was that about, Doctor Briefs? Trying to dive between them like that? You trying to get us all in trouble? 'Cause you know that's what happens if you get hurt, right?"

"Well, I…" Bulma flicked her gaze to Kakarot and back. "I thought he might stop if I got between. Kakarot's still healing, right? I wasn't just going to watch that guy punch him out…"

Cheelai huffed. "That so? Eh. Starting to think you've got a death wish." She shook her head, then put a finger to her lips. "Wait. Kakarot, you _did_ get the room key and the rest of Doctor Briefs's stuff before you ran back, right?"

Kakarot blinked.

"Room key," Cheelai reiterated. "Card. Make-door-go-slidey." She held up her fingers to make the shape of it. "Don't tell me you hadn't even finished retrieving it before Nappa showed up."

Kakarot lifted his hands, palms up.

Bulma pinched the bridge of her nose and Cheelai muttered curses under her breath.


End file.
